


Stay with me, we'll take the night

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Birthday, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Fireworks, Flashbacks, Fourth of July, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Smart Kids, Swearing, Up all night to get Bucky, Vomiting, not exactly but I've been dying to use that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 01:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11392443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “Head fucking hurts,” Bucky says.  “And I keep hearing shit…”“Aw, babe,” Steve whispers sympathetically.  “It’s the kids across the street.  They’re shooting off their fireworks already.  Probably breaking a million city ordinances…”______________________________________________________________________________________________________For some, the fourth of July is not an easy holiday.  Even when it's also your birthday.





	Stay with me, we'll take the night

**Author's Note:**

> We're back in powers/no powers. You get how this works now. Could be canon, could be AU. Choose your own adventure.
> 
> Confession: I hate the 4th of July. I hate fireworks. I'm not a vet, and I don't have PTSD, but I'm not good with loud noises and flashing lights, and I'm hoping this story will be entertaining and useful in reminding folks that this holiday is not fun for a lot of people, including those who help defend America.
> 
> Sorry about the switchy POV. I just think it reads better this way.
> 
> Title from The Warrior by Patty Smyth
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr @Builder051 (It's a lovely sickfic blog).

Steve’s pulling the groceries out of his bike’s saddlebags when he hears it.  A loud whoosh and explosive boom that’s much too close for comfort.  He ducks instinctively and panics that he has just about nothing but a plastic bag of burger buns for protection before reality kicks in. 

 

It’s Steve’s birthday.  It’s the 4th of July.  It’s a firework.  __Duh.__

__

Now that he’s back in his driveway instead of in the midst of battle, Steve hears the high-pitched laughs of the kids messing around in the patch of grass beside the row of townhouses across the street.  It’s all of about 2:30 in the afternoon, so Steve’s at a loss for why they’re doing this now.

 

None of my business, he tells himself as he extracts the last grocery sack from his saddlebag and starts for the front door. 

 

But it kind of is his business.  Steve’s already had his jumpy moment at the sound of a Roman candle.  This is exactly why he’s not thrilled about tonight’s planned festivities.

 

__“I’ll be fine,” Bucky had insisted.  “It’s your birthday.  We should do something.”_ _

__

__“I don’t know…I’m not sure it’s the best day to try to celebrate…” Steve’d hedged._ _

__

__“We could invite Sam over.  Have a cookout or something.”_ _

__

__And Sam had called Nat, who’d called Clint and Laura, who’d called Tony…_ _

__

So five adults and two kids are supposed to come over to celebrate Steve’s birthday on what’s probably the worst day of the year for folks with PTSD.

 

Steve’s worried.  The living room and backyard are barely big enough to house the small crowd, the mini charcoal grill Sam’s promised to bring over is probably an insult to masculinity in general, and Steve’s not good at letting loose.  There’s probably one six-pack of Heineken in the fridge, so he hopes everyone either brings their own bottles or is ok with a dry night.  He’s not eager to head back out to the store and try to carry a full bar back on his bike.

 

More than that, though, he’s worried about Bucky.  And when he gets inside, he knows he’s right to be concerned.

 

Steve sets the groceries down on the kitchen counter and immediately sees what’s wrong with this picture.  There’s a plate with half a sandwich on it and a big wad of crumpled plastic wrap beside it.  The translucent silver roll is on the floor, and the box nowhere to be found.  The kitchen radio is hanging by the cord, dangling off the counter and in front of the lower cabinets, the plug miraculously still in the wall.  It’s emitting static over what sounds like __Party in the USA__.

 

“Buck?” Steve asks, quickly shoving the packages of burgers and hotdogs into the fridge and glancing around for Bucky.

 

“Hmph.”  It comes from the living room, where Bucky’s face down on the couch with his arm folded over his head.

 

“Hey,” Steve says softly.  He sits on the edge of the coffee table.  Steve notices the trembling of Bucky’s fingers as they press over his mussed hair.  “Can I touch you?”

 

“Huh.”  It’s almost the same muffled sound as before.

 

“Ok,” Steve says.  He kneels between the table and couch and presses gently between Bucky’s shoulder blades.  “You’re safe, ok?  You’re with me.”

 

Bucky heaves a deep breath in and out.  He rolls onto his side to face Steve. 

 

“Hey,” Steve says when they make eye contact.  Well, barely, since Bucky’s squinting through his lashes. 

 

“Hey,” Bucky groans.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“Head fucking hurts,” Bucky says.  “And I keep hearing shit…”

 

“Aw, babe,” Steve whispers sympathetically.  “It’s the kids across the street.  They’re shooting off their fireworks already.  Probably breaking a million city ordinances…”

 

“Yeah, I figured,” Bucky says.  Steve’s not sure he’s telling the complete truth, though.  His eyes have that glazed flashback look even though they’re still half-lidded.  “I think I broke the radio.”

 

Steve glances back into the kitchen where the radio is fuzzing.  “Actually, it might be ok,” Steve says.  “The tuner’s just knocked off, I think.  Were you looking for your station?”  He chooses not to remind Bucky that his preferred 60s, 70s, and 80s rock station is programmed into the pre-sets alongside NPR, ESPN, and classical piano, so there’s no real reason to use the tuner.  Ever.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters.  “Every station’s playing fucking Justin Bieber…”

 

Steve tries not to laugh.  Admittedly he feels the same way sometimes, __which is why their radio has pre-sets…__

__

There’s another sizzling boom from outside. 

 

Bucky draws his knees into is chest and squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“It’s ok,” Steve soothes, as much to himself as to Bucky.  “It’s those damn asshole kids.”

 

Bucky nods into the couch and doesn’t open his eyes. 

 

“Do you still want your music?  Or would that bother your head?”

 

“Yeah.  Music,” Bucky grunts.

 

“Ok.  I’ll get the radio fixed up here…”  Steve pats Bucky’s shoulder.

 

It takes just a few seconds to get the radio back on the counter, adjust the volume, and select the pre-set for 104.7.  Music fills the room.

 

__Shootin at the walls of heartache_ _

__

__Bang, bang_ _

__

__I am the warrior…_ _

__

“This ok?” Steve asks, hoping the lyrics aren’t inducing more flashbacks.

 

“’s fine,” Bucky says.

 

Steve turns to the half sandwich.  “Can I put this away?  Your lunch?” he asks.

 

“Yeah.  Think the cling wrap’s broken too…”

 

Steve smiles and shakes his head.  He rescues the roll from the floor, tears off a sheet, and neatly stretches it over the half-sandwich. 

 

When he puts the plate in the fridge, Steve re-organizes the barbecue supplies.  He separates the hotdogs and burgers, lines up pickles and condiments in the fridge door, and stacks buns on the counter.  The fluffy white bread starts to look more and more hopeless under his hands.

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, striding back into the living room.  “We don’t have to do this.”

 

“Hm?” Bucky asks, cracking his eyes open as Steve squats in front of him.

 

“This thing, tonight.  We don’t have to do it.  I can call everyone.  It might be better.”

 

“No,” Bucky says, propping himself up on his stump arm.  “No, it’s your birthday.  I’m gonna be fine.”  He undermines himself by scrunching up his forehead and bringing his hand up to scrub his eyebrows.

 

“Hey, if you’re not feeling good—”

 

“I’ll be fine.”  Bucky comes up to a seated position and slouches into the couch cushions.  “We’ve got time.”  He squints at the clock, but that doesn’t seem to be working, so he flicks his gaze out the window instead. 

 

Another loud pop comes from the vicinity of the front yard.  Bucky pales.  “Yeah, I’ll maybe just go to bed for a while.”  He gets to his feet and starts for the bedroom. 

 

“Can I get you anything?  Excedrin or something?” Steve asks.

 

“No, just, keep on, whatever you’re…” he trails off.  “I’ll be fine, Steve.  Stop worrying.”

 

Steve sighs as the bedroom door closes.  He thinks about calling off the barbecue anyway, not for Bucky but for himself.  He’s just not in the mood to celebrate anymore.  He doubts he even was in the first place. 

 

He’s halfway to pulling out his phone to call Sam when Steve changes his mind.  Bucky’s determined to have this shindig, even if he has to screw up his eyes against his migraine and muddle through it.  Steve owes it to him to try at least that hard.  And Bucky’s right, they do have time before the gang’s scheduled to arrive around 7:00.

 

Steve digs a sharpie out of the junk drawer and tears a sheet of notebook paper out of a random spiral and scrawls:  __Please No Fireworks.  PTSD.  Thanks.__

__

He tapes the makeshift sign to the front door and gives the kids a good glare before he retreats inside and locks the deadbolt.  It might not do any good, but at least it’s something. 

 

The radio’s long since dissolved into Michael Jackson, but Steve still hears the echo of Patty Smyth.  __I am the warrior…__

__

Steve flops down on the leather couch, which is still warm from Bucky’s body heat.  He’ll be fine.  They have time.  Steve closes his eyes and tries to relax.

 

 

 

 

 

Steve jolts into awareness when the doorbell rings.  The orange light of sunset is streaming through the window, and the clock is showing 7:04.  The 4th of July.  The barbecue.  __Shit.__

__

The doorbell rings again, and Steve stumbles off the couch to answer it. 

 

“Nice sign,” Sam says when Steve swings the door open.  “But not sure it’s helping.”  He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the herd of neighborhood kids, which has approximately doubled in size.  They’re lighting off small fountain fireworks that are, blissfully, quiet.

 

“Yeah, well,” Steve grumbles.  “Come on in.”

 

Sam follows him through the door.  “You ok?”

 

“Yeah, sorry, I just woke up,” Steve admits.  “Buck wasn’t feeling good, and I was trying to give him some space, but I guess I fell asleep.”

 

“Is he ok?” Sam asks.  “We don’t have to do this if your boy’s sick.”

 

“I think he’s ok, he just had a migraine.  Kids weren’t helping,” Steve explains.  He eyes the grocery bag dangling from Sam’s fist and the mini grill under his arm.  “You can dump your stuff in the kitchen.  I’ll go wake him up and see how he’s doing.”

 

“Hey, you sure you’re ok?” Sam asks again.

 

“Yeah, I’m good.  Just groggy,” Steve says.  “I’ll be right back.”

 

He knocks on the bedroom door before turning the knob.  There’s no response.

 

Steve opens the door with a creak.  The quilt on the bed is crumpled from Bucky lying on top of it, but there’s no other sign of him. 

 

A warm breeze drifts through the room, and Steve realizes with mounting horror the window beside the bed is open, and the screen is popped out.

 

Steve stands at the foot of the bed and holds onto his last shred of hope that Bucky’s still in the room.  Perhaps he just wanted to let in the breeze. 

 

A snap and a crackle float in from outside…Not loud, but unmistakable.  __Those damn fireworks…__

 

“Bucky?” Steve calls.  He peers around the door of the ensuite, but Bucky’s not there either.  “Buck?” Steve checks the closet.  More of the same.  No Bucky. 

 

The doorbell rings.  __Fuck__.

 

Steve dashes back to the entryway where Sam’s letting Nat in. 

 

“Hey,” Nat says, saluting Stave with the six-pack of beer in her hand.  “I saw Tony.  He’s trying to parallel park that monster SUV.  And I think he brought Pepper.”

 

Steve doesn’t answer.  He’s sure he has a panicked look on his face.

 

“He’s still not feeling good?” Sam asks

 

“No, I…” Steve starts.  “I can’t find him.”

 

“What?”

 

“I—the window’s open.  He’s just—he’s gone.”

 

“Huh?  Slow down, start from the beginning.” Nat sets the beer down on the floor and grabs Steve by the shoulders, gently shoving him down at the foot of the staircase.  She perches on the bottom step and balances his elbows in her palms.  “Ok, tell me what happened.”

 

“Those jerks across the street, the kids,” Steve starts.  “They’ve been at it with the fireworks since this afternoon.  I left Buck to go to the grocery store, and when I got back he was all curled up with a migraine and probably a flashback or the start of a panic attack.”  He bites the inside of his lip.  “I mean, the sound was squirking me a little bit, I can’t imagine what it was doing to him.  But Buck just kept saying he was fine, he just needed to lie down for a while.”

 

Nat hums out a sympathetic sound and rubs her hands down Steve’s arms.

 

“He went in the bedroom and I passed out on the couch for a while, and then Sam got here, and I went to wake him up, and now he’s…I can’t…” Steve trails off and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

 

“Ok, you’re sure he’s not in the house?” Sam asks.

 

“I didn’t check,” Steve admits.  “But…he’s not.”

 

“Let’s give it one more look,” Nat offers. 

 

She pulls Steve upright and they spend five minutes running up and down the stairs, opening closets, and shouting Bucky’s name.

 

The search is fruitless.  Back in the entryway, Sam is greeting Tony and Pepper, and Steve and Nat are hatching a plan. 

 

“We’ll split up and walk the block.  We don’t really venture outside our little radius; he can’t have gone more than a mile or so…”

 

“I’ll stay in case he comes back.  And for when Clint and Laura show up,” Pepper offers sweetly.  She easily swings the cases of beer up off the floor and carries them to the fridge.  “These’ll be nice and cold for when you bring him back.”

 

“Ok,” Steve sighs.

 

“Hey,” Nat says, squeezing his shoulder.  “We’ll find him.  Don’t worry about it.”

 

***************************************************************************************

 

Bucky trudges through the dusty grass and weeds of the empty lot and comes to rest with his stump arm and aching forehead against the warm brick wall of the pizza parlor.  It’s creeping from dusk into darkness, and he’s lost track of how long he’s been wandering the outskirts of their DC suburb.  Bucky just knows the pain in his head is ratcheting up into the territory of unbearable and the vision in his right eye is pretty much shot with neon white and yellow aura.

 

__Pow!  Sizzle…_ _

__

The sound comes from several blocks away, but Bucky’s disoriented, can’t track the direction, and momentarily isn’t sure if he should move to dodge a bullet. 

 

It smells like bread and tomatoes and cheese and garbage and smoke and gunpowder… Nausea filters up from Bucky’s stomach and down from his head, radiating into his jaw and down his shoulders.  He heaves against the wall and vomits up something it seems like he ate a long time ago.  Maybe back during the war.

 

Bucky’s hair falls into his face, and he retches again.  He accidentally inhales his own bile and coughs explosively to clear his airway while neon colors swirl behind his closed eyelids. 

 

“Are you ok?  Are you sick?”  The voice is high-pitched enough to grate on Bucky’s sensitive ears, but quiet and timid enough to keep from doing much damage.

 

Bucky dry heaves a couple times and turns his head to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his T-shirt.  The motion is dizzying, though, and he’s halfway to collapsing into his own puke when little hands latch onto his elbow and drag him a couple steps away from the brick wall.

 

Bucky lands on his hip and right hand, and he manages to seat himself and drop his head between his knees before the vertigo steals away all of his consciousness. 

 

“What’s wrong with you?  Do you need to go to the doctor?”  The small hand pokes him in the shoulder.  The left shoulder. 

 

Bucky waits for the exclamation of panic that’s sure to follow the kid’s discovery, but it doesn’t come.  Instead the voice just asks, “Does it hurt?”

 

Bucky grunts.

 

“Your arm?  Or your, um…it hurts?” the voice asks uncertainly.

 

“No, my fucking head.”  Bucky realizes he’s probably not supposed to swear when talking to this young-sounding person.  “Sorry.”

 

“Is that why you barfed?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“’Cause your head hurts?”

 

“Hm.  Yeah,” Bucky croaks out.  He presses his thumb into his right eye socket in an attempt to mitigate the dizzying aura.

 

Another voice cuts across the empty lot.  “Bella!  Are you talking to strangers?”  That voice sounds young too, but a little deeper.

 

The kid shifts on the ground beside Bucky.  “What’s your name?”

 

“James,” Bucky says, anticipating the ear-splitting giggle that will come if he relays his nickname.

 

“No,” Bella shouts across the lot, away from Bucky’s ear.  “I’m talking to __James__!”

 

It’s still loud, and Bucky flinches. 

 

“Are you a homeless vet?”

 

“A what?”  Bucky turns his head sideways on top of his knees so he can see the kid with his one working eye.  She looks to be in middle childhood, with long dark hair and a red, white, and blue patterned sundress. 

 

“Are you a homeless vet?” Bella repeats.

 

“No,” Bucky says, scrubbing his hand over his face again.  “Well, kind of.  No.  I have a home.”  Nausea’s starting to build again, and Bucky swallows the urge to retch.

 

“You should go home if you’re sick.”  Sage wisdom from a kid.

 

“Yeah, well,” Bucky mutters.  “I’m supposed to be at a birthday party.”

 

“You should cancel.”

 

“It’s at my house.  For my…my friend.  He, well, it’s actually his house.”  Bucky’s not sure what he just said.  Or if it’s coherent.

 

The kid’s way smarter than Bucky thought.  “Your boyfriend?”

 

“Uh…”

 

“I’m eight, I’m not stupid,” Bella says defensively. 

 

“I didn’t say you w—” 

Another huge booming firework cracks through the quiet night air.  Bucky throws his arm over his head and cowers under the explosion of pain.  “Jesus—fuck…”

 

“What’s the matter?  It’s just a firework.”  She sounds matter-of-fact.

 

“God, I know,” Bucky says.  “But it hurts.  And makes me remember bad shit.  Stuff.”  The kid’s going to be thoroughly corrupted by the time she’s done talking to him.

 

“Like, the war?” Bella asks.  “Like, Iraq and Vietnam, and like that?”  The details aren’t quite there, but she’s essentially right.

 

Bucky nods into his knees.

 

“Is that how your arm…?”  He can feel her hovering inches from his stump shoulder.

 

“You can touch it,” he says. 

 

Little hot fingers glance off the hem of his sleeve and beneath it to train curiously across his scarred flesh.  She quickly retracts her hand.

 

They’re quiet for a moment.  Footsteps are running through the lot, toward the opposite end from where Bucky and Bella are sitting.  Bucky squeaks his eyes open just enough to see a couple of kids, maybe a few years older than Bella, dashing around with sparklers in their hands.

 

“My big brothers,” Bella supplies, following Bucky’s squint.  Then, “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”  __What is this kid’s endgame?__

 

“Steve,” Bucky whispers.

 

“Does he love you?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.  If this is a guilt trip, it’s already working.

 

“Even with one arm?”  Bella continues.

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Then he’s gonna love you even though you got sick on his birthday.”  She sounds exasperated in a childishly adorable way.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says again.  “I know.”

 

There’s another shout from across the lot.  “You gonna light one of these?  Or just sit there like a weirdo?”

 

Bella looks carefully at Bucky.

 

“Go.  I’m fine,” he assures her. 

 

She gets up and bounds across the patchy grass and dust to join the boys.  Bucky watches them for a second, then lets his eyes drift shut.

 

“Hey,” Bella’s voice says in his ear.  Bucky ignores the pulse in his forehead as he looks up at her.  She has a lit sparkler in each hand.  “Here.”

 

She passes Bucky one of the illuminated sticks and kneels in the dirt across from him so their sparklers can almost touch. 

 

*****************************************************************************************

 

“Bucky?” Steve calls as he jogs up the sidewalk toward the pizza parlor.  There are kids playing with sparklers in the vacant lot beside the brick building.  Steve’s about to ask them if they’ve seen a man with long hair and one arm, but as he scans their shadowy figures, he realizes one of the shapes seated in the dirt __is__ a man with long hair and one arm….

 

“Buck!” 

 

Bucky’s head lifts and turns toward Steve’s voice.  His eyes widen in the dark, and the kid sitting beside him reaches up to snatch a sparkler out of Bucky’s hand so he can stumble forward into Steve’s chest. 

 

Bucky’s sweaty and dirty and smells like vomit, but Steve doesn’t care.  He swallows Bucky in his embrace, kisses his forehead, and whispers, “Hey, I’m so glad you’re here.  Are you ok?”

 

“Yeah, I’m…” Bucky starts.  “I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s fine; it’s ok.”  He squeezes Bucky closer.  “I have to call Sam.”

 

Steve holds Bucky to him with one arm while he quickly gives Sam the good news and directions to the empty lot.  As soon as the phone is back in his pocket, Steve moves so both he and Bucky can sit.

 

The little girl is still hovering, and after confirming that Bucky’s name is in fact James, she launches into the story of what happened.  Bucky gives embarrassed cringes as the girl—Bella—emphasizes words like __barfed__ and __boyfriend__. 

 

“Yo!” Sam’s sprinting down the sidewalk toward them, Nat at his heels.  Tony’s not far behind, and Steve can see Pepper, Clint, Laura, and the kids a few yards further back. 

 

The adults collapse in a cluster around Bucky and Steve, and Lila and Cooper excitedly join Bella and her brothers with the sparklers. 

 

Laura gives Bucky a thorough maternal shakedown, asking him how he’s feeling and pressing Excedrin and bottled water. 

 

They sit there in giddy relief for a few minutes.  Then, far down on the horizon, small bursts of red and blue start up.  The fireworks display on the National Mall, huge as it is in DC, is tiny from their suburb up the hill. 

 

The kids are pointing and oohing and ahhing.  Steve can hear the booms, like rolling thunder in the distance.  He glances at Bucky, who still looks sick.  “Do you need to go home?”

 

Bucky’s gazing down at the faraway sparkles.  He hesitates, then nods.  “Right after the show...”  He turns to look at Steve.  “And happy birthday, by the way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Reqs? As always, no promises, but lots of love for any inspo.


End file.
